We leave the horses at the livery so we can walk through the harbor’s marketplace on foot. The Grand Marshal offers to escort us with his guards, but he would undoubtedly have questions about the alliance, about the fate of the royal family, and I am not ready to feed a larger meal to the town gossip quite yet.

Once we step into the fray, however, I nearly regret the decision. The aisles are thick with people, voices raised to bicker and barter and trade. Bodies press in closer than I am ready for. A stray dagger could be anywhere. Harper suddenly grips my hand.

Grey knows his job, however. He steps forward and says, “Make way for the crown prince and his lady!”

A path opens before us. Men bow. Ladies curtsy.

But not all. Some stare. The stares are not friendly.

Harper leans close. “I’m sorry I’m so nervous.”

Sharing my own tension will do nothing to calm hers. I glance over. “You seem resilient as ever.”

“I’m not used to so many people staring at me.”

“How regrettable. You surely deserve the attention.” I gently move her hand from mine to the crook of my arm. I lean in close to speak softly along her cheek. “I need my sword hand free. You are not the only one who is nervous, my lady.”

Surprise registers in her eyes, and she gives a small gasp. I half expect her to let go, but she doesn’t. Her hand holds tight at the bend of my elbow.

The cobblestone walkway between rows of vendors and tradesmen has been swept free of snow, and large steel barrels of burning coals sit every dozen feet to warm the air. Every stall boasts something different: silk scarves, hammered silver pendants, beaded hair combs. Swords in one booth, knives in another. Frayed pennants advertising each artisan’s trade wave in the cool breeze. I am glad for the open air of the marketplace, because the press of people is actually quite claustrophobic. People continue to yield a path, but many do so only grudgingly. Men meet my eyes and hold them.

It pricks at my pride. My father never would have tolerated it. He would have made an example of one, and no others would have dared such insolence.

My father also would have had twenty-four guards at his back. I have two.

I lean toward Harper again, and keep my voice easy. “What do you think of Silvermoon, my lady?”

“I’m trying not to stare too much.”

“Stare all you like. Does anything catch your fancy?”

“All of it does.”

“Name anything you like and it is yours.” I say this more loudly, and every merchant’s head swivels in our direction.

“You don’t need to buy me off,” Harper says under her breath. “I’ve already come this far.”

“I’m not buying you off. I’m buying them. I want to spend silver. Give my people confidence.” I pause and raise my voice again. “Silk, you say? Come, let us look.”

We spend a small fortune. Vendors have been ordered to deliver bolts of fabric, dozens of dresses, endless trinkets in silver and gold and blown glass, and a pile of painted wooden toys Harper chose for the children. Everything she touches, I buy. When we pass a stall offering beer and spirits, we buy a round for everyone nearby. The men who scowled at me earlier have disappeared, and any uncertainty has vanished from the air.

Even Harper has relaxed into the role. Vendors fawn over her. Women whisper behind their hands, but their eyes are curious, not mean-spirited. Children offer baskets of sugared nuts and warm biscuits, and no one dares to crowd our path now. Grey and Jamison seem more at ease, giving us more space instead of hovering quite so close.

Underneath it all, uncertainty plagues me. I look at each face and imagine soldiers from Syhl Shallow slicing through them with a broadsword. Worse, I look at each face and imagine my creature slashing through them with claws.

By late afternoon, we’re nearing the back part of the marketplace, where the stalls and aisleway are larger, and many vendors offer games of chance and entertainment. The scents of salted meats and roasted vegetables carry from the next aisle over, where the marketplace will spill out into a large open area for eating and gathering. Larger weapons are sold back here, too: swords, shields, longbows, and the like.

My eyes linger on the bowyer’s stall, the long arcs of wood ranging in color from bright polished amber to a dark, rich ebony. The stall is larger, with a long channel set up alongside, where shoppers can test a bow before purchase.

Harper follows my gaze. “You haven’t bought anything for yourself.”

“There is nothing I need.” Except time, and I haven’t yet seen that for sale.

“Well, technically I don’t need anything you just bought, either.”

The bowyer notices our attention, then turns to pull a long slim bow from the wall. Reddish-brown wood gleams from end to end, the grip wrapped in braided leather. He offers it on outstretched hands. “Do you care to shoot, Your Highness? Or perhaps your lady would? This is the finest bow I have. Wood from the Vuduum Forest.”

I inhale to decline—but Harper looks up at me. “Can I do it? Will you show me?”

“Yes, of course.”

We draw a crowd almost immediately. Two dozen people form a circle. Grey stands beside us, his back to the stand, and tells Jamison to make sure the people keep their distance.

“Are all these people going to watch?” Harper whispers.

The bowyer offers a slim wrist guard, and I take her hand to buckle it around her forearm. “Nothing generates interest like the opportunity to watch a royal fail at something.”

Arrows lie along the ledge at the front of the narrow range, with a wooden target at the end, maybe thirty feet away.

I take an arrow, nock it on the string, and rest the end on the shelf of the bow. “Watch,” I tell her. “Straight arm, draw back to the corner of your mouth, and shoot.” I do as I say. The string snaps hard, and the arrow flies straight into the center of the target.

That earns me a smattering of applause. Harper’s eyes are wide. “Way to keep the pressure down.”

I smile. “A child could hit the target at this distance.” I hold out the bow and another arrow. “Give it a try.”

She takes the bow and arrow, then a long, slow breath. Her eyes center on the bull’s-eye. She finds focus so easily. The nock of the arrow lands on the string like she’s been shooting all her life, and she raises her arm to put it along the bow.

She’s so confident about it that I nearly miss the fact that she’s resting the arrow on her fingers instead of the bow shelf. I step behind her and close my fingers over her drawing arm before she can let go.

“Was I doing it wrong?” she says.

“If you want to shear the fingers off your hand, you were doing it exactly right.” I adjust the placement of the arrow, matching my stance to hers. My arm rests below her forearm, my fingers closing around hers to hold the bow. “Here. Touch your mouth with the string.”

When her fingers brush her lip, mine do as well. Her body is warm and close in the circle of my arms. The crowd behind us has melted away, and the moment centers on this one task. “Whenever you’re ready,” I say softly, “release the string.”

Her fingers release. The string snaps, and the arrow goes flying.

It buries itself in the upper-left quadrant of the target. The crowd applauds again.

She turns to me and smiles. “I did it! I like this better than knives. Will you show me again?”

I find it amusing that she keeps asking, as if I would not do this a thousand more times. She seizes another arrow and lines it up on the bow, more sure this time. I lift her elbow to straighten her aim.

She hits closer to the bull’s-eye this time. Her eyes are bright, and she’s a little breathless. “Again?”

“Of course.” I would give anything to touch her face again. Her chin, the soft curve of her lip. I settle for gently straightening her aim.

She hits the target again and smiles up at me. “I love this. Again?”

“As many as you like, my lady.”

When she turns to shoot, she shifts closer to me. Whether by accident or intent, I am not sure, but I can feel her warmth. When I place my hand on her arm, I leave it there.

She does not pull away. Maybe fate has finally found me worthy of mercy.

Just as I have the thought, a weight slams into my midsection, and I’m thrown against the side of the bowyer’s stall.

And then I hear Harper scream.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HARPER

An arm encircles my waist and I can’t move. I’m so stupid—at first I thought it was Rhen grabbing me, to adjust my stance somehow, and I probably lost a moment to fight. But from the corner of my eye, I see Rhen being slammed into the side of the stall.

Hot breath singes my ear, and the heavy weight of a man is at my back. The arm around my waist pulls tight, lifting me just off the ground—and blocking the dagger that Grey belted onto me. I struggle, but his grip turns painful. An arm wraps around my rib cage from behind, a fist pressing into my neck.

“Be still, Princess,” a vaguely mocking voice says in my ear.

Dozens of faces surround us, but I can’t see Rhen now. I can’t see Grey.

“Kill their guards,” a man yells somewhere to my left. “Take the prince alive. Do what you want with the princess.”